


Black River Runs

by ScriveSpinster



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Don’t fear the Reaper, Ficlet, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 20:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20279338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriveSpinster/pseuds/ScriveSpinster
Summary: Not so much a bargain, this time, as a gift.Spoilers for August’s Exceptional Story,The Shallows, but can be understood without playing it.





	Black River Runs

The Boatman meets you at the end of a lonely pier stretching out over a river that runs to and through no mortal lands. The only light here is the lantern hung at the approaching prow, the only sound the slip and splash of oars through water. The boat glides to a halt, and he looks up from beneath a broad-brimmed hat, revealing a face more shadow than skull; you can see the void in his eye sockets, darker and colder than the water lapping gently against the algae-slick wood.

“You again,” he says. “On this day.” His voice is a tolling bell, an intonation.

“On this day,” you say. The anniversary of the last time you spoke, the last game you played – the game you won, through desperate strategy and no small amount of luck. You still wake sometimes from nightmares of checkered squares, pawns and bishops that do not move as pawns and bishops ought. They’re better than your nightmares of the final shore.

“Bold of you to return,” the Boatman says. “Not wise, but bold.”

“I strive for audacity,” you say. He stares at you, silent; his game of choice might be chess, but no one has a better poker face. You take a breath – you do breathe still, if only out of habit, even in this thin air – and say, “I meant to give you something.”

“What?”

“This day,” you say. “Twenty-four hours, by Earth’s rotation. I’ll do your duty while it lasts – with no misdemeanors this time – and you’ll take the oars back at the end of it. And if I’m still alive when another year passes, I’ll find you here again.”

Your voice sinks into the silence without a ripple. Time passes, though it is difficult here to say how much, and the river flows inexorably onward, and no answer comes. Just as you begin to wonder whether might you have offended, the Boatman bows his head with the finality of a mausoleum door closing.

“Twenty-four hours,” he says. “No more than that – provided that you do not err in your duties.”

“I won’t,” you say. You will need to beware of your impulse towards mercy.

He offers you the oar. His hand grips yours as you take it, and you feel a chill run through you, then pass as the Boatman’s mantle settles over your shoulders. You step into the boat, and he steps onto the pier, and only then does he release you.

He tips his hat in your direction, and as he does, something scampers from the pocket of his coat up to his shoulder, small and furry and pale as the Salt Wastes. A Salt Weasel – a shy little warm-blooded fleeting thing, as unexpected here as sunlight. You’d always thought he accepted them in sacrifice, but he strokes its back with one skeletal finger, and it cheers you, despite everything, to realize you might have been mistaken. Then he turns and walks the way you came, cityward, into gaslight and the tumult of industry. You don’t see him vanish. You only look away for a moment and he’s gone.

One day, for each year you live. A small reprieve. A small token of gratitude, for a life you know he didn’t need to let you return to, but you think he might at least appreciate the symmetry. As for you – there’s a part of you, weary and foolhardy, that‘s thought too often about making this river your home. It’s peaceful here, and there’s temptation in the silence and the solitude. You wouldn’t mind drifting for a while, or even seeing what other branching tributaries you might find, out beyond the Waswood’s borders; you never would have guessed it, but there’s a whole network of rivers here, converging from disparate sources, flowing to seas you’ve never seen. Perhaps you’ll turn the boat, one day, and seek a different way to a different end – but your passengers are waiting, and you know better than to linger or to stray. You have a duty to fulfill.

The oars are rough in your hands, and you know every current, every shoal; the lantern flickers and swings as you push out into quiet water.


End file.
